


The Universe Conspires

by nire



Series: The Cosmic Conspiracy [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Identity Reveal, Secret Identity, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire
Summary: When Peter Parker says the words that identify him as her soulmate, Michelle Jones refuses to play by the rules. Because fuck the system, that's why.The universe has other ideas.





	The Universe Conspires

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, the reaction to Five Times MJ Doesn't Need Rescuing was so insane, it gave me enough fuel to write another one. So here you go.
> 
> A couple of disclaimers:  
> \- It's 5:28 AM, please be kind to me.  
> \- It's also a Soulmate AU, and I'm not sure if it's your thing, but give it a shot? I noticed this trope isn't so common in this pairing yet.  
> \- Here lies angst. I warned you.
> 
> Enjoy!

On the first day of high school, Michelle Jones’ old book bag finally gives up, the unraveling seam on the side tearing apart to make way for all seven books inside to tumble to the floor, succumbing to gravity. This all happens just as everyone is rushing to their next class, and it’s all she can do to make sure no one steps on any of her precious.

She’s saved four books already when the remaining three are offered to her.

It’s the boy who sat in the first row and asked a lot of questions during chemistry this morning. He’s remarkable in being the exact picture of a high school nerd stereotype: glasses, messy brown hair, pasty freckled skin, and a gangly, wiry frame wrapped in a Star Wars tee and a pair of jeans too big for him.

“Here you go. I don’t think anyone stepped on—oh, no, I hope this one’s not your favorite,” he says with a voice that obviously hasn’t finished breaking. On top of the stack in his hands is Suki Kim’s _Without You, There Is No Us,_ sporting an ugly, diagonal fold mark on its front cover, and it only adds to all the reasons to glare at this good Samaritan.

He begins stammering an apology, but she’s heard enough from him. She wrenches her books from his hands and stacks them with the others, then she walks away without a word. Her stomach rolls with guilt. She shouldn’t be so mean to him. He’s just trying to help. It’s not his fault the book cover got bent.

It’s also not his fault that he said her Words. Capital W, because it’s a Big Deal. The first thing he said to her is the exact line written in a scrawl around her ankle for as long as she remembers, marking him as her soulmate. She doesn’t have to check his notes to know that his handwriting would match. Statistically, it’s almost certain that the first words she says to him would be something already written in her handwriting somewhere on his body.

And above all, it’s definitely not his fault that MJ always strives to stick it to the man, or in this case whoever or whatever it is that thinks they can decide who she will fall in love with. Fuck that. It’s not like having a soulmate immediately guarantees a happily ever after. Often enough people have jerks as their soulmate—or _soulmates_ , as it is possible, though unusual, to have two or three or in one documented case from the 1970s, eight in one lifetime—and the relationship crashes and burns, unless they’re a jerk themselves. Sometimes soulmates die way sooner than you do, which creates a lifetime of mourning and emotional scars. Very rarely, soulmates die even before you meet them, which is what she had secretly hoped would happen to hers just so she could be free, except the words around her left ankle stubbornly stayed ink black.

Then her book bag betrayed her, bringing her face-to-face with the boy she’s—bleargh— _meant to be_.

In hindsight, she should have fixed her book bag or even buy a new one before it rips. Hasn’t she lived her life careful never to trip or fall or drop anything, just so she would never have to be in a situation where her words would be said? But she was careless, and her words were said, and so she only has one option, doesn’t she?

She just has to say nothing at all to this boy. Ever. Even though they’re in the same year and he’s taking the same classes as she does. That way, he never has to know, and they both avoid the disappointing romance they are no doubt destined for.

Easy-peasy.

 

* * *

 

She still feels guilty for making him feel guilty about her book, so she picks the lock to his locker and fills it to the brim with potato chips. The face he makes the next morning when all the potato chip bags fall on him is priceless.

 

* * *

 

It’s not very hard to maneuver her life so that she never has to talk to Peter Parker. MJ’s default mode is avoidance of social contacts anyway, which coincidentally is also Peter’s default mode. Sort of. He joined three clubs in the first week of school, but he’s there for the activity and not for the people. Socially, he’s almost as much as a loner as she is, except for one Ned Leeds. That makes it even easier, because he always has a partner for group projects, therefore reducing the likelihood of her having to work with him. And sure, Peter and Ned both joined the Academic Decathlon club—which is the one club she joins because all knowledge is power and she aspires to be the queen of bar trivia nights when she’s old enough to drink—but when the two boys don’t quiz each other, resident rich brat Flash Thompson always jumps at the chance to quiz Peter and potentially humiliate him. Not that Flash has succeeded so far, considering Peter is a genius even for Midtown Science’s standards, but that seems to only rile up Flash even more.

And it’s not like she can’t talk around Peter. She can even talk to a group of two people or more including Peter, if she needs to. She just can’t address him _personally_.

Okay, so it’s not _hard_ , but it does require constant vigilance whenever Peter Parker is in the vicinity. This leads into her knowing far too much about him, maybe even more than he knows himself—partly because teenage boys have terrible self-awareness, but mostly because she is just very observant—and she thinks if not for the red string of fate problem she would not mind having him as a friend. Which is terrible, really, considering she’s doing all this so that she doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life with him, but it’s only for four years.

Four years, and then they don’t have to meet each other ever again. Then she’s free to do whatever she pleases with her love life, or lack thereof. Anything to defy the system.

 

* * *

 

One Wednesday, Peter doesn’t come to school, and remains absent for the rest of the week. Word spreads out that his uncle died, shot by a mugger.

The next Monday, Peter opens his locker and gets buried in every kind of pre-packaged snack one can get from a bodega. He rushes to the bathroom, leaving the pile of snacks on the floor and his locker door ajar.

Her stomach twists and rolls, and she’s not sure why.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s changed.

He’s stopped wearing his glasses. And he doesn’t notice it, but the straight girl and gay boy population notices him more now. Maybe it’s because his eyes are no longer rendered small and beady by the thick lenses, now displayed in their round puppy-dog glory. It also helps that apparently he’s fit now, his shirts now pulled tight around his shoulders and arms. For some reason, he pretends otherwise, but when he thinks no one is looking, he drops the act and starts doing things that the old Peter Parker would never be able to do, like fifteen push-ups in thirty seconds. Then his eyes meet hers, or Coach Wilson praises him off-handedly, and he will slow down and shift his posture a little, feigning imperfection. No one has called him out on this charade, somehow, and the school’s general consensus is that Peter Parker just low-key Longbottomed, which is not an uncommon phenomenon in their age group.

Sometimes there’s a certain stiffness to his movements, or a slight limp, but it’s always gone the next day or two. Once, in the library, he reaches towards the top shelf before wincing and cradling his side with a hand. She’s on the precipice of making a decision to help him get the book when he grits his jaw and reaches up again. His shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of ugly, bruised skin for a split second before he yanks a book down the shelf and his entire posture slackens. She thinks he looks like he’s going to collapse, swaying on the spot, one hand holding the book and the other pressing his ribs, shoulders hunched, eyes scrunched shut.

But then he catches her watching and immediately stands straighter, waving half-heartedly at her. She gives him a two-finger salute. His answering smile is brittle.

He starts ditching clubs and sleeping in classes. She should be happy by this development, as this makes it easier for her to avoid interacting with him, but she isn’t. She thought she had sketched his character well before, but it turns out now that it’s no longer a true likeness.

Her curiosity will be the death of her.

And maybe she’s worried. Just a little bit. Anyone would, if someone they know suddenly behaves suspiciously and gets mysterious injuries. At a glance, it looks like he’s abused or bullied, but that doesn’t explain the sudden improvement in physical abilities. He could be just turning into a gym rat, but why hide that?

She starts sitting on his table at lunch. Six feet away, though, because she’s _not_ sitting with him. So far, the intel is useless. He doesn’t even tell his best friend anything. Ninety-percent of the time they’re talking about nerdy things. The ten percent they spend on running commentary on Liz’ outfit of the day, which she finds rather distasteful despite secretly agreeing with most of their opinion on this matter. She hates herself for this.

One day, he comes to school with a magnificent black eye. Ned freaks out, predictably.

“I walked into a door,” he says, fast and confident and rehearsed.

“How?” Ned asks, incredulous.

“Stark Industries offered me an internship and I was so excited I didn’t watch where I was going.”

Which is bullshit, because no matter how smart Peter is, Stark Industries doesn’t take minors as interns. The sad excuse of an excuse does its job, though, because Peter freaks out about the internship and stops asking questions about the black eye that is most definitely not from a door. It’s also convenient because now he has an alibi for whatever illicit activities he does after school.

She has a lot of theories, but her top guess is that he’s in an illegal cage-fighting tournament to earn money and support his family after his uncle died.

 

* * *

 

MJ is wrong.

All it takes for her cage-fighting theory to be disproven are two dweebs who can’t keep their mouth shut. They’re lucky no one else sits on their table—except for her, of course, but she is invisible until she makes herself known—or else the whole school would know that Peter Parker is Spider-Man.

Fucking Spider-Man, local hero and tourist attraction, famous for stopping burglars and purse-snatchers, rescuing kittens from trees, and helping old people cross the streets.

It makes sense—because Peter is quintessentially kind, always—but also, _what?_

Not that it changes her plan or anything. He can be an Asgardian god for all she cares; she’s still not talking to him.

Besides, she thinks bitterly, he’s smitten with Liz anyway. Not his fault. Liz is practically perfect in every way and half the school is in love with her. Even MJ has a crush on Liz. Still, if Liz is an accurate representation of Peter’s type, then MJ is the furthest thing from it. Evidence number three hundred and four that the universe is wrong and their supposedly fated romance would be disappointing.

Really, she’s doing him a favor.

 

* * *

 

Something happens at the Washington Monument. She’s not sure what, exactly, just that there’s a loud sound, and there’s a crack near the top now, and it’s suddenly so noisy around her, people’s voices buzzing, and Ned and Liz and Flash and Abe and Cindy and Mr. Harrington are up there, _shit shit shit_ —

and then Spider-Man comes out of nowhere and stands next to her. His masked face is tilted upwards at the monument, his posture half-crouched as if he’s preparing to leap from the spot.

Unbidden, she says to him, “My friends are up there!”

He yelps a startled “ _What!_ ” before catching himself, then offering a generic-sounding platitude and calling her ‘miss’ as he ran towards the monument. It would be funny in any other situation, but all she can feel at the moment is relief, because there is no way Peter will ever let his friends come to harm.

Oh.

Peter. She just said something to Peter.

Crap.

What has she done?

 

* * *

 

There’s a brief moment when MJ tells herself that it is possible that Peter doesn’t have her handwriting somewhere on his body, because around one in three million soul bonds are not reciprocated. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t realize that she’s never said anything to him because she sometimes quips at him _and_ Ned, or to the decathlon team, so it’s not like it’s the first time he heard her voice.

 _Oh,_ she realizes, she’s going through the bargaining stage. She hopes she never gets to the acceptance stage, because this is not grief, her dream of independence is not dead, and no stupid tattoo-slash-birthmark will ever decide who she belongs to, damn it.

Besides, in order to acknowledge the fact that she said her words, he has to reveal his identity to her. Which she is absolutely certain he will never do, because as much as he is shit at lying and keeping secrets, he’s also fully committed to keeping his identity under wraps for some stupid honor code. Ignorance is more dangerous than knowledge, but that is one lesson he still has not learned and she has no interest in imparting it to him for obvious reasons.

So, cool. She can just pretend it never happened, because Peter will, too.

 

* * *

 

There’s a nice artisanal tea shop that MJ frequents. They have racks of test tubes filled with samples of different blends, and she orders a different one every time. She suspects it’s a front for a more insidious business, because the place is almost always empty and the prices are outrageously cheap, and yet it’s still open. She’s not going to complain. It’s her favorite hideout.

Then Spider-Man casually walks into the shop in full costume and stops at her table.

“Hi. Michelle, right? Peter told me about you.”

She glares at him and he actually flinches, as if she could seriously hurt him if she wanted to. To be fair, she can do just about anything if she seriously wants to, so maybe the flinch is not unwarranted after all. “Get it over with, Spidey.”

“Sorry. Um. Can I sit?”

“Don’t overstay your welcome.”

He takes it as a yes and sits across from her. “I won’t, I promise. I just have to ask you one thing then I’ll get out of your hair. Um. Not that I have anything against your hair, it looks really soft and bouncy and smells great—not that I’ve been smelling your hair! I promise I’m not creepy or anything. I try not to be, anyway. Am I creepy?”

“No.”

His posture straightens and his eye-things dilate. She can practically see him grinning, the dope.

“But you’re annoying.”

He deflates. “Oh. Sorry.”

“So, what’s the question?”

“Question?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “You said you have a question for me.”

“Oh. Right. I don’t know how to make this sound un-weird, but when we met at the Washington Monument last week, you said my words.” He pauses, as if giving her time to interrupt before continuing. “So, I guess my question is, has anyone said your words yet?”

A truth for a truth. If she tells him about Peter, he will have to tell her his identity. Then all will be in the open, and—what? What comes next? They fulfill their prescribed destiny, fall in love, date, get married after graduation, have two kids and a dog, live in a house with white picket fence?

No, she realizes. Peter will never make her do that. He will never make her do anything she doesn’t want. She can come clean not just about their soul bond, but also about her feelings about it, and he will listen to her and try to understand, because that is just the kind of person he is. And that, more than anything, terrifies her. She’s gone through life keeping all her cards close to her chest, because trust is not her strong suit, but she trusts Peter. She can tell him.

It then dawns on her that she _wants_ to.

And because she wants to, she doesn’t, instead saying, “I don’t have any.”

“You’re unmarked?” He doesn’t sound like he believes her. She doesn’t blame him. The lie sounds hollow even to her own ears.

“That, or mine’s not born yet. Either way, it’s not you.” _It’s not you, it’s me._ The line comes suddenly into her mind and she nearly laughs at the absurdity of it.

“Okay.” He nods, then stands up. “Well, I promised I’d get out of your hair.”

This startles her. She expected more questions, more prying, even an argument. His resignation is not among the things she prepared for. Seized by an impulse to comfort him, to do _something_ , to fix it, she says, “I’m sure you’ll meet yours.”

“What?”

“Kind of an occupational hazard, isn’t it? People asking you to rescue their friends from tall structures? Maybe I just coincidentally said the same words someone will say to you someday.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, simply looking at her, and she feels like an ant under a magnifying glass, sunshine converging to light her up on fire. Then he shrugs, says, “I guess,” and leaves.

She sits there until her tea cools, thinking that maybe the universe knows what it’s doing, pairing up two persons so intent on telling lies to each other.

 

* * *

 

It’s like no one told them how to whisper.

“Hey, come on. You can’t keep moping like this. You don’t even like her!”

“I’m not moping.” He is. He’s simultaneously avoiding looking at her and keep glancing back, it looks like a game glitch. It’s been happening for the entire week.

“I thought you liked Liz.”

“Of course I like Liz.”

“But?”

There’s resolve in Peter’s voice when he replies, “No but. You’re right. I do like Liz.”

MJ flips the page of the book she’s reading, then realizes that she can’t remember a word from the previous page.

By the next day, word spreads out that loser extraordinaire Peter Parker is going to Homecoming with dream girl Liz Allan. Neither of them can stop smiling and giggling and glancing at each other at lunchtime. It’s gross.

MJ is browsing the library when from the other side of the bookshelf someone asks, “Are you sure about Peter?”

Liz—MJ knows it’s Liz, because who else—sounds annoyed when she replies, “What’s wrong with Peter?”

The other girl says, “Nothing. He’s awkward and nerdy, which is exactly your type. But he’s not your soulmate.”

A sigh. “It’s just Homecoming, Betty. We’re not getting married.”

“It doesn’t look like just Homecoming, though.”

“For now, it is,” Liz says with an air of finality.

Betty doesn’t give up. “Look, I just don’t want you to get carried away and then one of you meet your soulmate and things get messy.”

“It’s fine. We’re teenagers. We’re supposed to have fun. It won’t last past graduation anyway. I’m not going to do long distance with someone who’s not my soulmate.”

“Well, okay,” Betty says, reluctantly. “Does he know that, though?”

“He’s smart.”

“He’s a teenage boy. They’re all idiots.”

Liz laughs. “You’re only saying that because you’re a lesbian.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Liz gets ditched at Homecoming with no explanation. Spider-Man puts her dad in jail that night.

MJ agrees with Betty. Teenage boys are idiots, and Liz chose the worst of them all.

 

* * *

 

“I’m recommending you to be team captain,” Liz says.

“You sure?” MJ asks, and she regrets saying it as soon as it escapes her lips. It sounds like baiting for compliments.

Liz scoffs. “They’re all scared of you, so yes.”

This forces a smile out of MJ. “Thanks.”

“Thank me after you guys wreck another historical building,” Liz says, smiling back.

“Any advice?”

“Just the one.” Her smile fades, her expression growing serious. “We would have won easier if Peter had been there. You need to control him in better than I did. I don’t know what, but you two have a weird thing going on ever since Nationals.” She raises a hand to halt her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. I noticed, even though I still don’t understand it. I’m not sure I want to, either. You should either fix that, or use it somehow.”

She sits there, stunned. Nice, sweet suburban princess and Homecoming Queen Liz Allan is all of that, but also _more_ , and MJ can’t believe she’s never seen this side of Liz before. But then again, no one knew that her father was a criminal, too. Clearly, this is a family that knows how to keep secrets.

“Michelle? Are you okay?”

“My friends call me MJ,” she says, absently. And then, “How long have you been hiding the fact that you’re a Slytherin?”

Liz beams, beatific. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She squeezes MJ’s hand. “Good luck, MJ.”

 

* * *

 

Liz is absolutely right. MJ needs to make sure Peter pulls his weight in Decathlon. He can answer the science and math questions in his sleep—literally, because there’s this one time he fell asleep during practice and sleep-talked the answer and it was correct—but he barely gets by on any of the other subjects.

At least she can talk to him now. Small mercies.

She thinks of ways to approach this—even briefly considers asking Peter to send a message to Spider-Man so she can clear the air—but settles with her basic M.O.: pretending that there’s nothing wrong. So one day, at lunch, she unceremoniously drops a printed spreadsheet in front of him.

“Uh,” he says, eyeing it suspiciously, “What is this?”

“That,” she says, straightening the paper in front of him, “is you.”

It’s a statistical recap of his performance during Decathlon practices, color-coded. She has one for every member, but the one she shows Peter is his own. She may have gone overboard with the bolded red numbers.

“I don’t get one?” Ned demands.

“I’m not wasting paper on someone who’s got good stats already.” At Ned’s pout, she says, “Fine. I’ll email you. Data nerd.”

“I’m not the one who made a spreadsheet for Decathlon,” Ned shoots back.

“It’s the only way to communicate with you losers. Speaking of losing,” she taps Peter’s spreadsheet, “You need to do better.”

“I will,” Peter says, but he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.

“You better. You’re off the team.”

“What?” he squeaks.

“Until you get at least eighty-five percent on all subjects, you’re practicing with me.”

Peter looks dejected, but then Ned asks, “Um, MJ, how about I practice with him instead? That way you can practice with the team.”

“No. Believe me, I don’t volunteer out of the goodness of my heart. I need someone who won’t go easy on him. Also,” she turns to look Peter in the eyes, readying the big guns, “Liz specifically instructed me to do this. She’d do it herself, but—”

Peter caves. It’s almost too easy.

But then he starts suggesting they practice outside of the scheduled sessions.

“What made you think I want to spend more time with you?” she asks.

“It’s not like I want to, either,” he says, throwing his hands up.

She narrows her eyes, staring until he squirms. “This is a very unorthodox method you’re using to convince me, Parker.”

“Come on, did you see what Flash was like earlier when he found out I’m off the team?”

Yes, actually. It’s part of her strategy. She thought it would motivate him better, but then she underestimated the effect. She sighs. “Fine. Tomorrow. There better be food.”

The next day, they end up at his living room. She protested a little at this choice of venue, but then he pointed out that this way the food and drinks are free unless she wanted to go to her place, which no. No way. And now she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and he’s sprawled on the couch, the both of them munching on his aunt’s homemade Chex Mix. It’s only a little weird. Clearly he wants to think about it as little as she does.

They go through quiz cards—they have an unspoken agreement to never call them flash cards for obvious reasons—with an alarming speed. Peter is a terrifying information sponge. She quizzes him on all the questions he got wrong yesterday and he gets them all right. He looks a bit too pleased with himself at this point, so she pulls out the quiz cards for Economy. It’s his worst subject.

“You wouldn’t,” he says, pointing a finger accusingly at her.

“I think you will find that while there are many things I wouldn’t, this I would.”

“What else?” he asks, abruptly, turning red immediately as the words escape him.

“What else, what?”

“Things you wouldn’t do. Or would.”

This feels dangerous, somehow, so she says, “I wouldn’t tell you what I would or wouldn’t do.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. The image is not unlike a goldfish.

“Welp, I broke it. Okay, that’s it for today,” she says, standing up only to have her legs give up on her because she’s been sitting on them for so long, sending her back to the floor.

Peter lets out a bark of laughter that he ends immediately by pressing both hands over his mouth. She glares at him and the edges of his eyes crease with restrained laughter. “I hate you,” she sighs.

“No, you don’t.”

“Oh?”

“You won’t bother training anyone you hate. You’ll just let them flunk and drop off the team.”

That is a surprisingly accurate assessment of her character. She’s not sure if she should be pleased or terrified. “You’ll wish I hate you by the end of this set,” she says, peering at the first quiz card. “A graphical depiction of the combinations of output that can be produced by an economy is called?”

He takes a throw pillow and presses it to his face. “Smother me,” he says, voice muffled. “It would be faster.”

 

* * *

 

Despite his obvious disinterest in any subject outside of science, math, and superhero history, Peter dutifully practices for an entire week until she deems him worthy of the team again. Flash is not happy, especially when it is proven that Peter outperforms everyone in his first team practice. MJ thinks Liz would be proud.

Impulsively, MJ sends Liz everyone’s spreadsheets and puts ‘thanks for the tip’ on the subject line of the email. She gets a text back within the hour.

> Liz Allan: _whatever you did, it works_
> 
> Liz Allan: _good job MJ :)_

This puts her in a good mood all day, and so she doesn’t even complain when Coach Wilson, motivated by the school inspector to actually put in some effort—tells them to run laps around the gym.

But there’s a reason her favorite gym activity is bench-pressing her book of the day.

She will later blame it on whoever waxed the floor yesterday, or on her shoelaces, or on herself because she never ties her shoelaces right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the end result: her slipping and falling, the sound louder than she would like it to be.

Peter is there in an instant—he probably had been faking slowness when she fell—and he fusses over her, asking if she’s okay (obviously not but also she’s not dying, sheesh) and pulling her back up. When it is evident that her left ankle is fucked, he throws her arm around his shoulders and puts his arm around her waist. They hobble to the benches, and when she sits down she sees Coach Wilson approaching them.

“Don’t worry Coach, I got this,” Peter says, to the obvious relief of Coach Wilson. It probably isn’t wise to leave the rest of the class unsupervised with the school inspector around.

Peter crouches in front of her, her left foot cradled in his lap. He presses his fingers on different points around her ankle. She tenses, but he seems to either not notice it or attribute it to the pain. “I don’t think anything’s broken,” he says, “just sprained. Wrap it up, don’t put too much pressure on it, and it’ll be fine.”

“Coach Parker,” she teases.

His ears turn pink. “Can I?” he asks, tugging on her shoe lightly, but making no effort to actually remove it.

She can say no, and he won’t. He’d call the school doctor, maybe, or Coach Wilson. He will never see what’s on her left ankle, will never know. They can continue whatever tentative rapport they developed throughout the week of decathlon practice. She can keep pretending.

Or, she can let him in. Because this is Peter, and she’s wanted to let him in ever since he picked up her books in the middle of a busy hallway, but didn’t because of the strings attached. Peter, who she’s sure already knows who she is, as surely as she knows who he is. And yet neither of them called each other out, preferring to keep the status quo for the sake of comfort. She thinks that maybe he’s as scared as she is, and that’s why he asked her about his words from behind the mask.

She thinks maybe they should stop being afraid.

“Yeah,” she says, as nonchalantly as she can manage.

He’s gentle when he takes off her shoe, then her sock. Then he stills.

There, around her ankle, is the line he first said to her on the first day of freshman year, written in his handwriting. He touches it almost as if he can shatter it—she thinks he probably could crush her bones, if he wanted to—tracing the slightly raised skin with his fingertips.

Her ankle throbs, and she’s not sure if it’s the sprain or something else.

But then, too soon, he stands up and leaves her sitting there. This is it, she thinks, she’s gone and ruined it, but then he returns with an ankle wrap. She feels silly, but also relieved.

Peter is a motormouth, always saying something, defusing tension with levity, but not now. Now he puts all his attention on her ankle, wrapping the bandage around it and around the arch of her foot. His movements are gentle, slow. She realizes that even though he is slightly shorter than her, his hands are big enough to circle her ankle.

When he’s done, the words are no longer visible. As if it’s never there.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

She tries standing up, then hobbling a few steps. She can somehow get around, but she’s not going to make it in the event of zombie apocalypse.

He must have come to the same conclusion, because then he asks, “Do you have anyone to drive you home?”

“My brother’s got double shift today,” she says.

“I’ll take you home, then.”

He meets her outside the locker room after changing back to normal clothes, and then, after making sure that no one is looking, picks her up bridal-style and carries her up the stairs.

“Parker, what—”

“It’s faster this way,” he says, which makes no sense.

They get to the roof, then he takes off his clothes to reveal the spider-suit underneath. “No use hiding this anymore,” he says, sheepishly. Then, he puts on his gloves and his mask and the disguise is complete.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What? I thought you must have known.”

“I’m talking about your plan to get me home, loser.”

“It’s faster this way,” he repeats.

“I saw the YouTube video. Splat.” She claps her hand once as emphasis.

“That was months ago!” he exclaims, indignant. “I’m way better now.”

“Is it even safe?”

“Sure. Do you trust me?” he asks, extending one hand to her.

She’s getting an extreme Disney déjà vu. “What?”

“Do you trust me?”

She shouldn’t be surprised to find that she does trust him, but she is anyway. So, she says yes, though not without a little trepidation, and takes his hand. He pulls her flush to his body, placing one hand around her waist. She puts her arms around his neck. Then, she says, “I swear if you start singing when swinging, I will end you.”

He laughs, confused. “Why would I sing?”

“That’s what I want to hear. Come on, bug boy, chop chop.”

She doesn’t scream. She _doesn’t_. But it’s close.

They get into her room from the window, which is mercifully unlocked. “You should always lock your window,” he says, concern lacing his voice.

He’s probably right. Still, “How many spider-villains can climb up here anyway?”

He takes off his mask to scowl at her.

She drops down and sits on her bed. “Fine, I’ll lock it next time. Now take off that suit.”

He starts. “ _What?_ ”

“I want to see it. Your mark.”

“Oh.” He presses the spider insignia on his chest, which makes the suit loosen up. Then he pulls it down halfway. On the left side of his chest, over his heart, is her handwriting.

She shudders. “Ugh, that’s creepy.”

“What is?”

“That,” she pokes the mark. “Can you imagine? Even before either of us knew how to write, it already knew what our writing would look like and what we would say to each other. And whoever orchestrated this—this—this _destiny_ or fate or whatever you want to call it, they decide who should end up with who. Indefinitely. And we build our lives around it, as if romantic connections matter more than friendship or family, and we get broken-hearted about it, and apparently no other romantic entanglement will ever measure up to our,” she makes air-quotes with her fingers, “ _soulmate_. Isn’t that creepy?”

“If you put it like that, yeah.”

“And can you imagine people who get fucking serial killers and dirty politicians as their soulmates? I mean, by some miracle I get a nerd with a messiah complex who dresses up in a leotard to stop buses from falling off bridges after school, but it could have been anyone else. It could have been someone old enough to be my parent, and we meet when I’m like, four, and somehow at four years old I wouldn’t have any other choice but to be with this person.”

He pulls up his suit, but doesn’t tighten it. “Is that why you lied?”

“Also why I didn’t talk to you for the entirety of freshman year, but then I slipped. I don’t want it to control my life. Or yours.”

“But, earlier at gym—”

She shrugs. “It’s you,” she says simply.

“Me?”

“I hate soul bonds by principle. I always will. But you—” She pauses, unsure how much or how little she should say. In the end, she says, “You asked me if you could take off my shoe.”

Somehow, that’s enough for him to understand. He sits next to her on her bed, and when she doesn’t push him off, he tentatively touches her fingers, then takes her hand. “I will always ask you first,” he promises, solemnly.

“Dork,” she says, then leans her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, talk to me. I read (and try to reply) to every comment. Love y'all!


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